


Don't Say a Word

by merrabeth



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Suicide, read on own discretion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 22:04:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2166822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrabeth/pseuds/merrabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This wasn’t something he would allow alcohol to reassemble in his brain. He wouldn’t let himself be numbed by his own medication because no matter what he did, it wouldn’t change anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Say a Word

Mickey can’t remember the last time he was fully sober. But he wanted to be- for this.

This wasn’t something he would allow alcohol to reassemble in his brain. He wouldn’t let himself be numbed by his own medication because no matter what he did, it wouldn’t change anything.

Ian’s seen him cry, and so has Ian’s family- _Mickey’s_ family.

 _Their_ family.

They’ve all seen him cry but he wasn’t crying now. He hadn’t cried since that day. He’s been upset, angry, borderline murderous, but he didn’t cry. He heard the news and- oh, fuck, he _had_ to tell Ian this crazy story he heard. Mickey wouldn’t forget to tell Ian. So he waited for days for Ian to come home. He waited in his room, away from the sobs outside his bedroom door. He was used to the sorry sobs in the Milkovich house. That wasn’t uncommon.

He came home from the hospital and went directly to his room and waited, sat in the middle of _their_ bed. Maybe it was three days later and his eyes tired from staring at the door that he got frantic. Why hadn’t Ian come home, yet? He felt his muscles stretch to the pillow behind him as he imagined throwing it at the door. But he was still. He couldn’t move a single muscle. There was a knock at his door and he waited; waited for Ian to walk in through that door. But there was nothing as the footsteps faded into the distance.

 _Why haven’t you come home yet?_ His voice shook in his mind. _Get your ass home so I can tell you the crazy story. It’s fuckin’ insane, you wouldn’t believe it._

_They said your fuckin’ dead._

A flash of his boyfriend’s shock ridden face came to mind and he continued.

 _I know, right? They said you- fuck, you did a lot. You took so many pills, you drank-what I said!_ He stared at the door as he pictured his boyfriend’s reaction in his head. _I told ‘em you can’t drink on your meds. They don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about. Because if anything was wrong, you would tell me, right?_

The images of Ian in the hospital popped in, his skin almost transparent from its paleness, bloated and not like Ian anymore. He wasn’t Ian. He didn’t look Ian. Ian was alive and well, happy and smiling and completely alright. Mickey had just seen him that morning, kissed the top of his head before heading out. Ian wasn’t fucking _dead_.

_Right?_

There was another knock at the door, but this time it opened as Mandy stuck her head inside. Her eyes were red and swollen, her makeup failing to cover her previous actions. “Mick, it’s time to go.” He voice croaked as she forced the words out. Mickey imagined he rolled his eyes at his sister’s words.

 _Great. Now I gotta entertain these peoples’ sick and twisted delusions. You better hurry up and get back before someone does anything drastic._ He stood, following Mandy out the door to meet his family- _their_ family. Debbie wiped at her face as she saw Mickey. He looked to them all like a new born baby merely observing his surroundings. He had no thoughts as they headed on their way to the funeral. “Ian’s” funeral.

 _Ok,_ Mickey thought as the service went on, and the fresh memory of the body in the now closed casket came to mind, _he kinda looks like you, but it’s not. We know it’s not you-_ I _know it’s not you. I can’t take pictures but just trust me, that when you get home and I tell you that you guys could’ve been twins, I’m not lyin’._

He went through the whole after ceremony, where there were laughs all around, remembering all the good things about “Ian” and how much of a fighter he was. They always looked to Mickey to add something, but Mickey wouldn’t dare be a part of this, because Ian was fucking _alive_.

And he became restless after that, if he wasn’t already before. Mickey’s anger grew with each day. _Fuck, where the fuck are you?_ He’d ask in his mind. He hasn’t spoken since they told him that Ian “killed himself”. _Where did you even go? I texted you the day you left. We saw each other. You were happy. You looked happy. You were fuckin’ you. Where did you fuckin’ go? WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU GO!_ He screamed to the fleeting images of Ian smiling to the ones of him in the hospital and the flat line on the screen. All he could see was the flat line, the one long beep. The tears flooded then, building up as the ringing was louder. That couldn’t have been him in that casket. If he was hurt, he would have told Mickey. _Why didn’t you fucking tell me, huh? Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?_

“Why didn’t you fucking tell me!”

It was the first thing he said since he saw Ian’s body. And it was the only thing he could get out of his mouth. “Why didn’t you _fucking_ tell me?!” He shot up, went to his door that hadn’t opened. Ian was supposed to come home. His best friend was supposed to hear this ridiculous story. But his best friend was gone. And just like that, the dam broke and the tears came. He kicked at the door, banging because his best friend wasn’t there to comfort him. His best friend was fucking _gone_.

“No…nononono,” he mumbled, his voice thick with his tears. He couldn’t see in front of him, so he closed his eyes and let the tears flow over his own drought. All he could see was Ian’s smiling face- then his pale skin and closed eyes. Back and forth his mind went as he reeled, “Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you tell me? Ian, why didn’t you…”He felt sick, and everything seemed unreal. Ian wasn’t supposed to be dead; he just couldn’t be.

All Mickey saw was that smile he’d wake up to see, after the cloud of depression had past and they were all sure Ian was ok again. Mickey didn’t want to see that face. He didn’t want to see the lie he was told, because Ian _wasn’t_ fine.

Mickey could faintly hear the urgent knock on his door. But he wouldn’t answer. It wasn’t Ian. He wouldn’t answer. Ian hadn’t said a word.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” He asked the memory of Ian smiling- the memory that didn’t answer. He received no answer. And as the door kept knocking, he wouldn’t answer, either.


End file.
